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He held my diary in his hands. It felt so much like me, yet there wasn’t a trace. He fanned the pages, but they were blank. No ink stains, smudges, or torn pages, the leather not yet beaten from a year’s mileage. Not like my others. There would be no birthdays, no canceled meetings, no promises. Still, he couldn’t help flicking through one more time. All it did was force him through a kaleidoscope of memories: when he tried to teach me to ski, our first date at the River Cafe by the bright pink pizza oven, my empty coffee cups left in every room of the house. Tom closed my diary and walked into our bathroom, through our walk-in wardrobe where our clothes hung on either side, the wardrobe Tom had teased me about because I used Carrie Bradshaw’s as my reference for the architect. My hats were piled high, my shoes the same. Tom didn’t feel for my clothes or brush past the things he knew were my everyday favorites. Instead, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, disturbed by the unfamiliarity of his own features.
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